


Forget it, nothing I change changes anything / I won't let it, I won't let it ruin my head.

by Anonymous



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Oral Sex, Reunions, Trans Bucky Barnes, Trans Male Author, Trans Steve Rogers, Trans/Trans Relationship, they love each other so much jsyk, trans male character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 10:03:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12430467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield… except for almost all of the milestones in their transitions. Three times they find each other again, find that something’s different, and reconcile with the fact that they keep meeting as new people.





	Forget it, nothing I change changes anything / I won't let it, I won't let it ruin my head.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ftmsteverogers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ftmsteverogers/gifts).



> This is my first ever work on ao3. I’m not really a writer, and I feel like a lot of the full stops in this could have been semi colons but idk shit about grammar so. 
> 
> They are so buff and so in love. Title is from ‘Walk It Back’ by The National and, yes, I know the line is ‘hair’ not ‘head’ but I figured it worked better that way. 
> 
> Content warnings for trans people are at the end.

“How are you doing?” Steve calls out to Bucky, once he finally finds him sitting in the dirt, in the dark. He’s unaccustomed to saying those words to Bucky, used to hearing them being said to him. Everything’s backwards now.  

“I said I’m fine, Steve. Don’t ask me again.” Bucky waits until Steve has sat next to him until he speaks. His voice doesn’t shake, but he’s tired of yelling, tired of everything, so tired.

Steve doesn’t reply, just sits so that Bucky can lean into his side, close his eyes, feel the love that seems to have grown in size to match the rest of his body. They sit until Steve can feel the even rise and fall of Bucky’s chest and he knows he’s fallen asleep. He doesn’t pick him up, doesn’t carry him to his army tent. Steve would have killed Bucky if he’d had done that to him when he was small, and he’s not going to do it to Bucky now. He just shakes him gently and helps him stand. They stagger through the canvas, and Steve lets it fall back, closed, behind them. Bucky is asleep again as soon as he hits the cot, and Steve can’t help but smile as he strips, unlaces and removes Bucky’s boots for him. He doesn’t climb in immediately, just stares at Bucky, face scrunched in sleep, dirt covered and beat up. He swipes a few hot tears from his cheeks. After carefully manoeuvring Bucky under the covers, Steve gets in. He pulls Bucky onto his chest, right over his heart so that he can hear the thumps that are finally sturdy, strong, right under his ear, hopes that it will seep into Bucky’s dream. 

He doesn’t sleep a wink that night. He lies and thinks about all of the ways they are new. The swap in position, the sounds of their breathing, the way Bucky squeezes him tight like he never would have before, his own body, his arms, the muscles that shift as he breathes, the muscles that shift as Bucky breathes, the width Bucky put on at basic, the width he put on. All of it, until the sun rises.

About an hour before the horns sound to wake the camp up, Bucky starts awake. He’s disoriented for a few seconds and Steve’s heart is gripped behind his ribs, but eventually he settles back down onto Steve’s chest.

“You’re a lot less bony now.” Bucky jokes.

“Yeah, I’m a lot more of everything.” Steve replies.

Bucky doesn’t hesitate as he moves up and over Steve to kiss him, both hands firmly on either side of his face. Steve chokes down a sob and kisses him back with everything he has, every thought and memory and plea.

They break apart before long, hyper aware of where they are, even if Steve’s tent is separated from the rest with the higher-ups. Bucky bores into his eyes.

“Sit up, let me have a look at you.” He tells him, moving back to give Steve space. 

He sits and Bucky lifts his dirt stained under shirt, slowly, all the way up and over his head, then throws it to the ground with his other gear. Bucky uses his hands to map Steve’s chest, his stomach, his shoulders, his chin, nothing he hasn’t done a million times. This time may as well be the first. Steve sits silently, watching Bucky’s face, looking for even the slightest flicker of anything, anything that will give away how he feels. Bucky runs his hand down Steve’s chest, through the crevasse of his abs, down to the soft blonde hairs that have newly sprouted and line the band of his briefs. Steve had gone to bed without pants, had removed the rolled up socks that he keeps down his briefs when in public, so Bucky can see there was no change there. Yet, he runs his hand down the outside of Steve’s briefs, searching, eliciting the first sound Steve has made since he started this expedition, and continues over hairy, muscly thighs. He rests his hand there.

“Boy, they really did a number on you.” Bucky says wryly.

Steve looks imploringly into his eyes. Bucky keeps eye contact. Steve is thankful for that. Steve knows that Bucky isn’t upset about the way he looks, knows that what he and Bucky have is more than skin deep. He can’t stand the idea that Bucky might be jealous.

“You look good too. Basic did you good.” He says instead.

Bucky huffs the closest thing to a laugh that he’s given in a long while. He pulls off the stained, tattered army issue sweater that he’s been wearing for goodness knows how long, and with it his tattered and torn binder that’s so stained you would never have known it was once white. They follow Steve’s shirt on the floor. He reaches back up, runs his hand along Steve’s jaw for the hundredth time, feeling the whisper of stubble that’s growing in. Bucky can’t get over that. He surges forward and kisses him again, climbs into his lap, grinds down with the sock that’s firmly tucked in his briefs.

Steve knows what this kiss means, knows Bucky that well. I love you, I don’t care, you look amazing, I’m happy for you, this is everything you’ve ever wanted and I’m so glad to be a part of it, I’m scared, how do I protect you now. All the things that Bucky won’t say but doesn’t need to. 

They kiss and kiss until their lips go numb. Skin to skin, chest to chest, breathing in synch. The kiss feels final, not like it’s the last one, though it will be until they can be together in private like this again in a day? Week? Month? But final in that they will turn over a new leaf. Start a new chapter. Leave but not forget their past in Brooklyn, trusting only each other, lying, stealing, forging their way to a bearable life. 

“I can’t believe it,” Bucky breathes, hot again Steve’s face. 

“That we’re here, or that I’m finally better lookin’ than you?” Steve jokes. He can tell by Bucky’s voice that he can joke now, that whatever happened to Bucky has been repressed and he’s bravado-ing his way to a recovery. 

“Both. I told you to stay put you punk.” He says and moves his hands down to Steve’s chest. “What did they even do to you.” 

Steve gives him the abridged version, not that he understood all the science stuff himself anyway. And Bucky just seems impressed. His face only falls the slightest fraction when Steve mentions the fact that there is no serum left. He tells him every detail of everyday that they spent apart, the procedure, the SSR, basic. He needs Bucky to know that he never meant to do it all without him.

They trade I love you’s. Whisper it over and over until it soaks into their skin. Until each of them knows for sure that the other one feels it, feels the entire force of it crushing them, pushing them closer together. 

They lie together for a few minutes, squished and crushing each other on the tiny army issued cot. Bucky is practically on top of Steve. But, eventually they have to get up. They still have a war to win. Nazi’s to fight. Steve rolls out from under Bucky, puts both feet flat on the ground, bends and kisses Bucky once more. Holds his face in his hands, feels Bucky’s hand brush his bicep. Tries to remember every detail, every second, of this moment for when he’ll need it. Gets up.

Bucky lies back on the bed, like he would back in their home, all those miles away, watches Steve get dressed with half lidded eyes, and thinks himself the luckiest man in the world. 

Bucky goes out first, slips back into his old tent just before sun up. His bunk mates are all sound asleep, don’t even stir as he gets in his cot, boots and all. The horn sounds, the camp grumbles awake, privates and sergeants and corporals and captains dress to regulation and file out for their morning ration. Oatmeal, probably. Steve joins them half way through, talks to Peggy for a minute, before deciding to join Bucky. He sits at a table with Dum Dum, Dernier, Jones, Morita, Falsworth. Bucky can’t seem to leave them after all the time they spent together in that cage. He and Bucky don’t avoid eye contact, but they don’t hold it either. They’ve spent so many years living life in private that they know how to act in public. 

“Decided to join the masses have you Captain?” Dum Dum jokes. 

It’s been a few days since they all got back from Austria. Most of the men have gotten their gratitude out of their system. Steve only receives a few, short pats on the back. They don’t crowd him like they would in his USO days. Steve is thankful for that. 

“Can’t stay away, what can I say, I’ve had a taste of the dangerous life now.” Steve jokes back, to a chorus of laughter. 

They tuck into their breakfast, and Steve can feel Bucky’s eyes shifting over him. He knows Bucky isn’t looking at him any way that could get them in trouble. Knows Bucky is smarter than that. He thinks that, were he to risk looking at Bucky like that, were he to have the self-control needed to do it, he’d be thinking just how lucky he is to have the most gorgeous boyfriend in the world. 

 

* * *

 

Sam always told him that chasing him was no good. No point. Barnes is too strong, too smart, we can’t catch him. You gotta wait for him to come in from the cold on his own terms. After two years, Steve finally listened.

He tried to get on with his life, tried to wake up in the morning and forget by the time he went to sleep that Bucky was out there, somewhere. He worked himself raw for SHIELD, the government, the Avengers, didn’t know what else to do. 

He bought an apartment. Sleeps and eats there. Spends a lot of time at the gym, with his friends, at work. Goes to meetings, does charity events, visits kids in hospitals, talks at schools, at the VA. Always trying to keep occupied. 

It’s an average, nondescript, Wednesday afternoon. Steve got home from a small scale mission about two hours ago, minor threat, no lives lost, no injuries. Mainly structural damage. He’d stripped, showered, blasted his aching muscles with boiling water, changed into a t-shirt and sweatpants, sat down to do some paperwork. Nothing out of routine. He hears a knock at the door. Steve’s sense of personal safety hasn’t always been the best. He’s reckless, careless, stubborn. He opens the door without checking, figures, if it’s someone here to kill him, he can put up a fight.

“Hi Stevie.” Bucky is standing there in the hall, dressed in civilian clothes, tall, broad, anxious. He speaks softly, like he’s trying to prove how non-threatening he is. His gravelly voice doesn’t convey it all that well. 

Steve says nothing. Too in shock to even wonder whether or not this is real.

“I thought of coming in through the window, but I try not to do stuff like that anymore.” 

Steve says nothing. His knees start to give.

“Woah, hey, I got you.” Bucky says, grabbing him by both arms to help steady him. The cold press of Bucky’s metal hand grounds him. Steve lunges forward and wraps Bucky in the tightest hug he can possibly manage. Bucky hugs back, manoeuvring the door closed before completely melting into Steve. They stand, limbs fused together, for ten, twenty, thirty minutes. Ten years could have passed and they would not care. That’s nothing to how long they’ve waited.

Eventually they pull apart and Steve drags him to sit on the leather couch in the sparse living area. His entire apartment is devoid of personal items. No photos, no trinkets, not even decorations. He barely lives there. Steve looks at Bucky imploringly, silently asking all the million dollar questions. Where were you, what happened, what do you remember.

“I’m sorry I didn’t see you sooner. I know you were looking for me for a while. I didn’t really remember much. I’ve spent the last few years writing in notebooks, everything I can think of. Every little detail I can remember. About me. About you. About life.” 

Steve swallows.

“Like what?” He isn’t sure if he means it to be a test, of if he just wants to hear those memories. Confirm they aren’t something he made up out of boredom, loneliness.

“Like, how we used to go down and watch the queens perform. How we used to help them with their costumes, get them hormones, in exchange for food. How we would sit around in our terrible apartment singing at the top of our lungs for hours trying to train our voices to go deeper. How I fell off a train. How I was used as a weapon. Sorry, by the way, for trying to kill you back in DC.”

“It’s ok Buck.”

“It’s not ok.”

“But it’s not your fault.”

They sit in silence for a moment, processing, grieving. Bucky’s voice is deep like Steve’s never heard it. He loves it.

“Are you here to stay?” Steve asks.

“If I can. I promise I’m good now, I won’t try and kill you, I won’t try and kill anyone.” Bucky tells him, voice pleading, sorrow flooding every word. The strongest, surest thing he’s felt in years.

Steve chokes down a sob and nods emphatically.

“Of course, Buck. Of course.”

Bucky leans in at the exact same moment as Steve, lips slotting together perfectly, like they’ve never spent a day apart. It’s a little salty, a little sloppy, but so satisfying. Steve can feel Bucky’s stubble scratching his chin, cheeks. He stands up off the couch, taking Bucky with him, holding him as close as possible while he leads him to one of the rooms in the back of his apartment, to his bedroom.

As soon as they are inside, he pushes Bucky backwards onto his bed. It’s a giant king size. Big enough for the both of them now. He stays standing for a few moments, giving Bucky enough time to object, to get back up, to say, ‘actually, I don’t remember everything,’ or, ‘things have changed.’ But nothing comes. He just looks breathless, spread out on Steve’s bed like he’s always been there, still in his black jeans and a jumper. Steve strips off his shirt and throws it to his side. Bucky does the same, boots following. Steve watches with nothing but love in his gaze. His eyes rake down the body that he’s been apart from for so long, the body that he no longer recognises. He sees all the moles, the freckles, the marks that time can’t erase. He sees the metal, fused with ugly flesh. The scars that surround it and litter his torso. He sees the two symmetrical scars that run just underneath his pecs. They’re thick, stretched, angry, like he was never given time to recover. So, his body doesn’t heal like Steve’s. A few years ago, when he was still under SHIELD insurance, Steve had looked into keyhole, to see if he could get rid of the last little remaining tissue there. The serum meant that he would heal right back up, and wouldn’t be able to go under anaesthetic. He had needed a while to get over that news.

Steve crawls over Bucky, up and up until they are face to face, Steve with both legs on either side of Bucky’s, Bucky with his head on Steve’s pillow, hair spread out like a halo. Steve runs his hands over each scar. His touch is light but assured. They are faded and nearly the same colour as the rest of his skin, only a little more pink. Steve wonders if they will fade more. Wonders how long they took to heal. Wonders how long ago they were made. Bucky hitches a breath.

“Hydra saw it as an experiment I think,” Bucky says, matter of fact. “I know that other people were doing the same thing. The Red Room loved to take trans girls, thought they were stronger. They just chopped ‘em off, no begging, no questions asked.”

“Can you feel anything?” Steve asks, running a thumb over his right nipple.

“Yeah, I can now.” Bucky is a little breathless, and Steve has never heard anything more beautiful.

Steve thinks about how amazing Bucky must feel. They’d gotten a queen once to sew together a makeshift binder for Bucky. He’d worn it to pieces, all the way through the war. Steve was always small enough that he could get away with a loose fitting shirt, then the serum had taken care of it. He remembers how they used to steal T. He reminds Bucky.

“Remember how we used to go down to the pharmacy, steal boxes of T and E, I was small enough that I could slip by, and you’d charm whoever was working.”

Bucky smiles from underneath where Steve is looming, hand still resting on Bucky’s chest.

“Hydra would give me injections every so often. Think it was their home brew. I’ve been off it for about three years actually.” Bucky doesn’t look happy about this.

Steve stopped taking T a week before his procedure. Not that he was on a very high dose anyway. Afterwards, he hadn’t needed it. In the past few years, he’d checked his levels every now and then, only needed one long lasting shot. It seemed that his body was taking care of that itself.

“I’ll get you some. Super soldier grade strength. I promise.” He leans down to seal their mouths together, moving his hands to cradle Bucky’s jaw. Bucky responds immediately, fitting his hands up and around Steve’s back. Body knowing where to go, though they haven’t been like this since they were in a tent, somewhere in Switzerland, voices hushed so they didn’t wake up the rest of the commandos. They can be as loud as they want now.

Bucky flips them both, with new strength. He moves down Steve’s body with quick precision. Another position that is nothing new to them. He grips Steve’s waistband as he goes down and pulls the pants along with him, leaving Steve in his briefs. He hadn’t put his packer back in after his shower, doesn’t care either way. Steve can see the hunger in Bucky’s eyes, the love. He pulls the sweats off entirely, moves back to tug on the briefs at an agonising pace. Steve lets out a whine and writhes a little. Bucky huffs a laugh.

He pulls the briefs down and off, situates himself entirely in between Steve’s legs. He brushes his hand through thick blonde hair, follows it with this fingers to where it trails onto Steve’s thighs. Bucky hold a thumb on Steve’s dick, leans forward, licks a stripe up Steve’s centre. He arches his back off the bed. Bucky smirks. He moves his tongue around, up and down, circles, figures eights, just like he used to love. He pays special attention to his dick. It sits full and hot on Bucky’s tongue. Moves both hands to grip his hips, holds him down to the bed. He’d only had a few opportunities to do this during the war, to get used to the changes, but he goes at it like he was made for it. Steve tosses and turns his head on his pillow, breath hitching and panting, grabs onto Bucky’s shoulders with both hands and holds on tight. Bucky groans into him. Bucky swirls and sucks, tongue every now and then dipping inside, driving Steve crazy. It hurts his jaw, so he doesn’t do it for long. He focuses on Steve’s dick. He makes a bobbing movement, more for show, and smiles into him when Steve writhes like a man possessed. 

“Bucky- You- I- Fuck.” Steve grunts. He had always been the one that had made too much noise. Bucky carried his sniper stealth into the bedroom. Could get it done without making a sound. Steve remembers all the times Bucky had to hold his hand over his mouth.

“Fuck, I’m gonna- I-,” He pants, nearly in tears. Bucky hums encouragingly into him, setting his legs and stomach alight with warmth.

Steve can feel the bed moving by his feet, where his toes are curling and flexing, digging into the mattress, and realises that Bucky is rutting against the bed, getting off on getting him off. This realisation pushes him over the edge and he gives one final shout, almost a sob, every muscle, every nerve in his body tensing. He throws his head back onto his pillow, lifts his back off the bed, only held down by both of Bucky’s strong hands on his hips. Bucky can’t help but marvel at how deep, how guttural it is. How it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard. How much it sounds like Steve. Bucky stops when Steve starts to twitch away, oversensitive, wipes his mouth on the back of his flesh hand. 

Steve is panting heavily, eyes shut, head still thrown back against the pillow. Bucky comes back up, lies against his right side, pats his sweaty hair, kisses his lips, chin, cheek, neck, presses soft pecks all the way down to where his neck and shoulder meet, sucks a big hickey there. He knows it will fade almost immediately, like it did when his body was fresh. Steve pants hot in his ear, makes happy little noises, like this is the best thing that could possibly happen to him.

Steve takes a minute to breathe and recover, strokes Bucky’s back lightly with a limp hand. Bucky tight in his arms. He pulls Bucky’s face up with his other hand so he can press their mouths together again. Steve moves the hand from around Bucky up and over his arm, feels the muscles and veins under his fingers, moves down and over Bucky’s abs, over each bump, one by one. Once he reaches the waistband of his jeans, he stops. Steve remembers how Bucky felt about that. He’d always been happy to get Steve off, loved it. But he’d almost never liked Steve to reciprocate. But Bucky moves his flesh arm down, grabs Steve’s hand, pushes it further, all the way, until he can cup the bulge in Bucky’s jeans. Bucky groans.

Before Steve can wonder if this is something that Hydra fixed up for him too, Bucky is popping his button, unzipping his fly, reaching in and pulling out the rolled socks and tossing them across the room. Steve notices that they are rolled to army regulations. Steve looks into Bucky’s eyes, opens his mouth as if to say ‘are you sure?’ but realises it’s a stupid question. Would imply Bucky can’t make decisions on his own. He fits their lips together instead. Steve continues his path down, under Bucky’s briefs, through wiry hair until he reaches Bucky’s dick. He hardens underneath this fingers, and Steve can feel the fullness and length that resulted from 60 years of testosterone. Steve knows that Bucky is secretly smug that he’s bigger than Steve. 

Bucky whimpers into Steve’s mouth, pausing the kiss. No longer able to focus moving his mouth when he’s  _ finally _ being touched, by the love of his life, after a lifetime. Steve takes it as his cue to start moving faster. He doesn’t dare move lower, Bucky had all but forbidden it before the war, and Steve doesn’t want to assume that that’s changed too. They have the rest of their lives to figure all of that out. He pumps Bucky faster, tries not to let the awkward lack of space and cramp in his hand allow him to stop. Focuses on the new sensation of the movement he can finally do. Bucky is moaning against his lips in time to his tugs, hot puffs of air coating Steve’s face each time, he shares his air, and wills himself not to pass out. Bucky’s noises get steadily higher and higher, looser, like he no longer cares about being gruff. He grabs Steve’s bicep, pulls him closer so they are flush, facing each other on their sides, squeezes like he’s grounding himself. Bucky hikes his leg up and over Steve’s hip, changing the angle just so. 

There isn’t really any more space now in Bucky’s jeans than there was before, even less maybe, but Steve can feel the crotch seam pressing into the back of his hand and assumes that it’s pulling enough the whole way round to make a difference. Bucky squeezes his bicep again, the one controlling the hand currently working Bucky over, and Bucky suddenly goes silent. Steve snaps his eyes to Bucky’s face, he hadn’t even realised he’d closed them, and watches as his face contorts, his eyes squeeze shut, his mouth gapes open, his tongue pokes out. Bucky pulls on his arm slightly and Steve takes that as a request to stop. He pulls his hand out, quickly wipes his fingers on Bucky’s briefs as he does, and puts his hand in Bucky’s hair, scratches his scalp softly. Bucky stays tensed for a moment, then collapses into the crook of Steve’s neck.

“I love you.” He mutters, presses a kiss for emphasis.

“I love you too, Buck.” Steve whispers back into his hair.

Bucky wriggles and tries to get his jeans off. His bones are liquid, so he doesn’t get very far. Steve pecks his lips and sits up on his knees between his legs to do it for him. Bucky lays on his back and lifts his hips to help, lies back down and lifts his ankles to get them all the way off. Steve succeeds and drops them down the side of the bed, the floor now covered in a carpet of discarded clothes. Steve falls forward and hovers above him, leans on hands either side of Bucky’s head. Bucky bends and wraps his legs around Steve’s back, locks his ankles together. He smirks up, a look that is second nature to him, a face that hasn’t changed since they were young. They stay there a minute, watching each other. Steve’s arms won’t give out for days. Steve can’t believe that he has Bucky under him. Is almost half convinced this is a very vivid dream. The sense of urgency that permeated the room all the other times he’d had Bucky like this is gone, and he knows that everything’s fine. Everything’s right. 

He falls again, down to his elbows, kisses Bucky once, softly, and moves back to the other side of the bed. Bucky manages to pull the comforter out from under them, and they snuggle down together. Steve knows at some point he will need to call Sam, will need to explain what happened, minus a few details, will need to figure out a game plan, a living situation, a life together. But that can come tomorrow. They’ve spent so much time apart. So much has happened. Steve doesn’t know where to start. He’s read all of Bucky’s files, everything so much as mentioning his name, he has no idea whether Bucky will even want to talk about it. Tomorrow. For now, they lay together, facing each other, in a giant bed on sweat soaked sheets. 

“So, how long you been stalking me? Or am I in the directory?” Steve jokes. His right arm is under Bucky’s pillow, his left clasped in Bucky’s.

“Only a little while. It was more like… keeping tabs.” Bucky blushes.

“Uh huh,” Steve counters mockingly.

“You know, you do a lot of dumb shit, Rogers.” Bucky says. “Not dumb like boring, but reckless. Stupid. I swear, every news report I see of you fighting something has a video of you nearly dying.” 

Steve doesn’t have anything to say to that. They both know why he’s so careless. The same reason why he crashed a plane in the ocean. But Bucky’s here now, so Steve smiles.

“You look so good Buck.” He breathes. Doesn’t add ‘all things considered,’ because that’s not what he means. Bucky smiles softly, shakes his head like he can’t believe he’s so lucky. He shifts down and rest his head on Steve’s shoulder, drifts off to sleep. Steve follows too.

 

* * *

 

Steve is up early, like always, for his run. He meets Sam every morning at the end of his street. Does a few laps of the city with him, tries to go through as many parks as possible. Re-learns his home. Bucky has come once or twice, but says it’s not for him. 

Steve usually peels himself out of the limbs Bucky has wrapped around him in the night, goes out, and by the time he gets back Bucky is awake in bed. He’ll crawl back into bed with him. On mornings, like this one, when Bucky hasn’t woken up, he makes breakfast. Nothing special, eggs, toast, bacon. He’s not MasterChef. He’ll set their big wooden kitchen table. Open the windows, put on the radio. Make the overpriced brownstone they bought together feel like a home. 

Bucky eventually shuffles out of their room as he is finishing up, shirtless and bleary eyed. Steve smiles. 

“Thanks babe. Love you,” Bucky mumbles as he sits himself down heavily on a dining chair, leans back, not yet entirely awake.  They’d gotten the chairs at a market a few months ago, matched the wood in the table perfectly. 

Steve looks him over, properly. He takes in his long hair, ruffled from sleep. It’s long now in a way it wasn’t before. It was long from neglect, stringy and greasy, uneven. Now, it gets lovingly brushed every day, usually by Bucky, sometimes by Steve. It’s freshly washed and soft as silk. Sometimes, one of them will braid it. Bucky tucks it back behind both ears to get it out of his way, and Steve notices the small, shiny, silver sleepers dangling from both ears. He must have put them in that morning when he woke up. It’s not until Bucky reaches for his fork to start eating that Steve notices the fingers on his right hand have been painted and shined up. They match the shine of the silver on his finger. It’s the only hand Bucky has now. He isn’t using the other one to fight anymore, and it was affecting his health. So, Bucky decided to try life without it. Steve grabs the hand, fork and all, and pulls it closer to his face, inspecting the familiar shade of dark blue. Runs his finger over it to feel the smooth shellac.

“You like it?” Bucky asks without hesitance or embarrassment.

“I love it.” Steve replies, and means it.

“Nat took me to her regular place. All these little Russian ladies. I think I’m gonna go with her more often, it was so soothing. The 21 st century is so good.” Bucky says and takes a bite of his eggs like a full stop.

Steve considers this. He tries his best not to stare at Bucky while he does, but he can’t believe his eyes. 90 years ago, Bucky would have exploded at the thought of having long hair or painted nails. Would work himself raw on the docks to make himself more weathered, manly. Steve remembers nights when he would cry into his shoulder, leave tear stains down his shirt, over all the things that he thought were wrong. Remembers the internalised homophobia, how it made him doubt himself. Bucky’s dysphoria had always been worse than his. Probably something to do with the fact that Steve was so much skinnier than him. Though he isn’t happy that he missed seeing Bucky, excited, relaxed, happy enough in his skin to go with Nat to the salon, (though he doesn’t think he’s quite ready to grow his hair out or paint his nails), the man sitting in front of him, across their own kitchen table, in their own home, is so different to the man he sat across from on the rotting floor of their old, run-down apartment, or the man he would see across the mess table at base camp. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I have no idea why they spend so much time in bed.
> 
> A few warnings/heads up for trans people who might read this and want to be prepared :)
> 
> \- There’s some mentions of self-medicating hormones. Steve and Bucky grew up in a time where there were next to no resources, and tbh trans history from periods like the 30’s hasn’t really survived, so I had to take liberty based on what I know of (mainly) trans girls in New York in the 80’s-90’s. I also assume they have at least some medical knowledge from Steve’s mum.
> 
> \- Neither Steve nor Bucky bind with ace bandages at all.
> 
> \- There is a relatively non explicit sex scene. I tried to keep it as basic as possible, and the only descriptors used are ‘dick’ for both Steve’s and Bucky’s junk. Bucky goes down on Steve and Steve jerks Bucky off.
> 
> \- There are brief, general mentions of both Bucky’s and Steve’s dysphoria, and one mention of internalised homophobia, but they aren’t dwelled upon for too long.


End file.
